You'd Better Run
by perchance to wake
Summary: ... if you want to survive. Blaine post-Sadie Hawkins Dance. Everything hurt, and he didn't know how to stop it. One-shot. Rated T for bad language.


_Disclaimer_: I don't own GLEE, and certainly do not own 'Dog Days Are Over', which is by Florence + the Machine. Awesome song. Took only sections from the song, and one part of the lyrics was altered slightly at the end. Be aware.

_Warning_: (brief) Suicidal thoughts, some homophobic and generally offensive language.

_A/N_: This is a one-shot that originated because I was imagining Blaine singing this song. And it suddenly seemed really, _really_ not happy... It always had pretty dark lyrics and imagery for a song sporting such an optimistic title, but ... I just had to write this for Blaine. Yeah. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>The dog days are over<strong>

**The dog days are done**

**The horses are coming so you'd better run**

oooOOOooo

"_You have to understand, Blaine, that we're only trying to look out for you."_

Everything hurt. And he couldn't take more pain meds for almost another two hours. His broken leg was both itching and and _burning_ with pain, but he focused on his plaster-encased foot nonetheless. It was better than focusing on the pounding headache, or the sharp, still-unexpected pain that shot through his ribcage every time he drew breath.

"_People... don't understand, Blaine. Hell, _I_ don't understand. You have to be practical. If you choose to be like … this … Well, that's up to you. But people will react badly, as you've learned."_

Everything hurt. Apparently it was meant to, if you were gay. How else could people be expected to react?

"_It's not surprising, really. I wish you didn't have to learn like this, though. No, not like this. I don't like seeing you hurt. But … what did you expect to happen? Did you really think that people would just let you waltz into the school dance with another boy?"_

No, he hadn't, and even that hurt. A year ago, maybe two, Blaine would have had much higher expectations. He would have dreamed of people seeing just how happy he was, dancing with another boy, and maybe they'd realise that, hey, gay people _aren't_ the spawn of Satan. Who knew, right? Isn't this just dandy?

It hurt that he had become far more cynical that that. He missed his own wide-eyed naivety. He had been so much happier, then. Sure, he still pretended well enough. He spouted the same optimistic, Disney-esque drivel he always did to his sister, and his one friend—who might not even be that anymore. Not after the dance had left him almost as broken as Blaine.

**And I never wanted anything from you**

**Except everything you had**

**And what was left after that, too**

He still outwardly shone with blissful ignorance, but his eyes were harder than they had been. The last few years of hearing the rumours, the comments, the increasing homophobia (and increasingly malicious vocabulary) of his peers, and then the last few months of locker checks and being thrown into dumpsters … it had made him wary. His eyes were sharp, constantly scanning the corridors for Letterman jackets. He didn't want them to know that they'd gotten to him. But they had. They had destroyed his innocence.

"_What did you expect to happen, Blaine?"_

He had expected the whispers, the stares. It had happened. He had expected glares. He had received them. He had expected to smile blindingly back at them, hand clasped in his partner's, his _male_ partner's, staring them down. He had, even if it was a little strained. He expected them to then forget about him, at least be _indifferent_, not ruin their own dance by paying too much attention to a pair of _fags_.

They hadn't.

The whispers, the stares, the _anger_ … it continued. And it burned into the back of his neck as he tried to coax Jack into dancing. They didn't dance. They stood, rather awkwardly, Jack putting at least a foot of distance between them, getting occasional shoves from passing bullies, hearing whispers of, _'You're dead, homos.'_

"_You shouldn't be so naïve, Blaine. This is Ohio. We follow certain … social rules, here. Now if you want to run off to, to … New York, or wherever after you graduate and live your … _lifestyle_, there … well, that's your choice. I hear they accept _that kind of thing_ there. But there's no need for you to shove your _preference_ down everyone's throat."_

**Run fast for your mother and fast for your father**

Jack wouldn't look at Blaine as they left. Just a mutter, barely audible, of 'Brilliant fucking idea, Anderson," as they walked over to a bench shadowed from the light spilling out of the gymnasium's doors. Blaine stayed silent.

"_It was a terrible idea. Stupid, really. Not thinking of the consequences. Just insisting on denying all common behaviour and trying to get attention. Did you ever think about how this would affect your family?"_

**Run fast for your children for your sisters and brothers**

Three guys were waiting.

"_Maybe if you were tougher you could have at least held your own. I don't know where I went wrong. You were always just such a, well, a girl about it. It's not surprising that you got bullied so much, even before the whole gay thing."_

Pain had happened. So much pain. One of them spat on Blaine's barely conscious form before he left and hissed, "That's what fags like you get. Remember that."

"_Well, I suppose you'll remember in future. And can improve yourself to make sure it doesn't happen again. Because it _won't_ happen again, right, Blaine? We're sending you to Dalton, they have a zero-tolerance harassment policy, but boys can be … unruly, and if they know what you are … just learn from your mistakes. I don't want to see you hurt again. Blaine, are you listening to me?"_

Everything hurt. His head, his ribs, his bruised arms, his broken leg. And the tightness in his chest made his already painful breathing almost impossible. Each word his father uttered, each _false_, _hateful_ show of sympathy, felt like a stab to his heart. It hurt. It hurt so much.

**Leave all your love and your loving behind**

He didn't respond, not a word, not a single answer was given during the whole lecture. He just continued focusing on the pain in his leg. It was agony, but it was a clean break, and easier to handle than … everything else.

_"Blaine!"_

Silence.

His father left.

Everything hurt. And he couldn't take his pain medication for another hour, at least. He would take his prescribed dosage, and when he did, the physical pains would ease. Slightly. The constriction in his chest would then be the most dominant pain, accompanied by the sharp stinging in his eyes as he prevented himself from crying.

Everything hurt, and the medication he was meant to take wouldn't help the way he needed it to. The thought that kept springing to mind was that if he took it _now_, and took a lot … _all_ the pain would stop.

He didn't do that.

He waited in agony for the hour or so to pass, and wished he could stand up to his father, tell him that he would never stop trying to find love, and to show the world that he could love whomever he chose. He even wished he could pretend to be normal without feeling like his soul was being destroyed. He wished he had the courage he needed to end it all. He wanted to do _something_.

**Leave all your love and your loving behind**

**You can't carry it with you, if you want to survive.**

Instead he lay there, motionless, not allowing himself the release of crying, not wanting to feel like more of a _coward._

**If you want to survive … you'd better run.**


End file.
